Pink lotus flower tattoo with a grey centre and the word Fearless in black script above it, on a forearm.

Fearless script and pink lotus on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A pink lotus flower with layered petals and a grey, pearl-like centre sits below the word Fearless in black cursive script. The petals are filled with soft pink shading and outlined in black, and the lettering has smooth, even strokes. The design is centred on the outer forearm against a plain skin background, with a tiled floor and a partly visible shirt behind it.

Botanical Lettering Forearm Lotus Flower Petal Script Fearless Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pond behind your aunt's house on Pell Island had gone to lotus the summer the ferry stopped running, and by August the pink heads stood above the green water like lamps nobody had thought to light. You were eleven and bored and sure the pond had no bottom. Mrs Okafor from the shop leaned over the wall and told you the old men still talked about the pearl that went down with your grandfather's boat, the one they called Fearless, which had struck the reef off Gannet Point one March and never come back.

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You waded in anyway, past the reeds, mud closing over your ankles like wet hands. The stems were thick as rope and cold, and when you ducked under the broad leaves the light turned green and then gold. You felt along the silt for a long time. Your fingers found a snail shell, a bottle cap, a root that wriggled, and nothing that was a pearl. Your lungs began to ache. You thought, not for the first time, that the old men liked a story more than they liked the truth.

When you came up, gasping, a lotus bud had unfolded right in front of your face. In its cup sat a single round bead of water, grey and silver in the shade, and when you tipped your head the bead trembled, rolled across the petals and stopped at the very edge, as if it were deciding whether to fall. It was not a pearl. It was only rain that had collected in the night and refused to leave.

You watched it for a long while. Then you bent close and blew, very gently, and it let go, dropped into the pond with a sound too small to hear, and was gone among the lamps. Walking back up the path, you found you were no longer afraid of the water, only of the stories people kept at the bottom of it.